


in your direction

by cloudstroke (aQuired)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Epistolary, M/M, Masturbation, Post Cuba, X-Men First Class Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 01:16:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1409629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aQuired/pseuds/cloudstroke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for <a href="http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/9701.html?thread=22390501#t22390501">this</a> reposted prompt.</p><p>Charles writes Erik letters after Cuba. It's not until he stops that Erik realises what he's missing from his head and from his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Dear Erik,_  
  
 _The doctors are saying there’s no hope for my legs. Hope is the one thing I rely on. The one thing I cling to, so I can stand on my two feet._  
  
 _Don’t you care?_  
  
 _Your dear and distressed old friend,_  
  
 _Charles Xavier_  
  
  
  
 _To Magneto,_  
  
 _One of your loyal cronies injured a student of mine. I’m sending you the hospital bill._  
  
 _If you continue to harm your own kind the way you are right now, I suggest you think twice, lest you want to find yourself outnumbered in the long run. You can’t start a revolutionary uprising with three mutants and a toad._  
  
 _Regards,_  
  
 _Professor X_  
  
  
  
 _Erik,_  
  
 _Please think twice._  
  
 _Charles_  
  
  
  
  
And then something terrible happened.  
  
It all stopped.   


 

 

———

  
  
  
The sight had become so easy to get used to.  
  
Mystique, only Mystique, was allocated the duty. Every envelope looked the same in exterior, and she knew the drill. Her brother’s handwriting was always immaculate. Similar to her own, Erik was once able to note, the discovery preceding the realisation that Charles would’ve taught her how to curve and shape her letters.  
  
Today, Mystique was late. She was yet to breeze into his office, dump the envelope on his desk, and snap at him for watching himself on the television.   
  
“Don’t be vain,” she’d add, pressing the button that blurred the evening news into a fading grey dot.  
  
And then she’d linger. Erik would begin slipping his gloves off, one motion for each hand, and then sit back in his chair as he waited for her to leave.  
  
Mystique would proceed to make thoughtless, haphazard inquiries, amber eyes always trained on the sheet of paper unfolding in Erik’s hands.   
  
Like their routine, Erik’s demand was unchanging,  
  
“I won’t say it twice. Please show yourself the door.”  
  
By now it had been a few weeks - since. She was Mystique only by name. Mysterious in her changeable skin, her flitting armour. She was still Raven, when she’d silently insist on staying, when she’d let out an agonised growl as she was told to leave.   
  
Perhaps he’d really pissed her off this time. But - she couldn’t slack off like this. Afternoon was dwelling. Erik had remodelled the metal chair legs to stud out with spikes, impatient. What could be keeping her?  
  
Had Charles forgotten to send him a letter today? No, Erik thought fiercely. Charles didn’t simply forget. And he never ran out of words or ways to chide Erik, so unless he ran out of ink and paper—  
  
Unlikely. The man was running a school.  
  
Erik shot up from his seat in an instant.   
  
There was a pile gathering in his desk drawer where his collection of letters sat. Frequent readings had embedded sentences into his memory. But he still had to remind himself that they existed, that Charles had tried to reach out to him time and time again, despite of the helmet over his skull.  
  
The helmet. It was uncomfortable. Ill-fitting.  
  
At least, soon, he’d have his own custom made.  
  
It would be equally uncomfortable.   
  
He stalked out into the foyer of the desolate, abandoned old hostel that was their current hideout, turned to face the halls and staircase, and thrust his arms out, wide apart.  
  
The building responded. Most of it, for a large part of its composition felt the summon of an attracting force. The metal crusting a dresser upstairs, the pillars in each corridor, pipes and screws and locks. Everything that made his power real - they spun, vibrated, eagerly indicating their presence.   
  
Satisfied with the jarring, sonorous noise reverberating back at him from the furthest wall, he dropped his arms. Sighed, and waited.  
  
Frost came down first. Erik heard stilettos clinking against the floorboards as she elegantly descended the steps, hands sweeping down the banister, apparelled in blinding white.   
  
Riptide skipped down the stairs two at a time, and once he’d reached the landing, Azazel had appeared with a red cumulus cloud, tail erect and alert.   
  
Mystique was last to arrive, or trudge, rather, as though she was encumbered by the weight of her limbs. Erik eyed her, ignoring her reluctance with all his efforts, content to pass it off as fatigue. Homesickness wasn’t something he was going to address.   
  
Her hands were completely empty.

Erik turned his head away. He kept his eyes averted as he asked her,  
  
“Anything for me this morning, Mystique?”  
  
She kept quiet for the length of a shrug.  
  
“Nothing today,” she informed, and for all that his mail didn’t concern her, nor did she ever read it - there was disappointment in her voice.  
  
He gave his heavy head a nod. The helmet shifted around, and he readjusted it, feeling foolish. This day was bound to come.   
  
Charles Xavier was a patient man, but Erik had made him wait for too long. Now the man had given up.   
  
Erik hadn’t replied to a single one of his letters, his pleas. He treasured them all and clutched them to his chest, pressed them to his nose in hunt for a scent, but he didn’t once reciprocate.  
  
And he couldn’t if he tried. He couldn’t write a list of all the things about Charles that tormented him. He, without a doubt, would run out of resources. For there wasn’t enough ink and paper, not enough words to describe just how much he cared for his old friend. Just how much he missed him. How often he thought of him, when he wasn’t already being haunted by his memories.   
  
It would’ve been easier if he didn’t still remember every moment with that man. The way he tucked a wave of his hair behind his ear after laughing, the way he laughed when Erik spoke, the way he spoke when Erik was angry.  
  
But it would’ve been much, much more easier if he didn’t  _vividly_  remember every inch of him, from shade and texture to taste and smell. He might as well have trashed the helmet, for all it did to keep Charles out of his head. He was always in there, smiling red and wide, feeling softer than he looked, tasting better than he smelled, and Erik was a coward because he couldn’t tuck any of his feelings into a letter, and he’d rather sulk instead.   
  
“Thank you,” he said, strained. He wasn’t thankful, but he supposed Raven needed to hear it. Raven, not Mystique. Mystique needed to suck it up and stop infecting him with her contagious case of Charles Xavier deprivation.   
  
He turned to the others gathered around him. Knowing that an angled lift of his head would cast his eyes into the shadow of helmet, he utilised the opportunity, stretching his neck and raising his chin. There - that should’ve left the rest to be easy, effortless, on impulse of a commandeering role. He swallowed down his hesitance and delivered his words stoically.  
  
“I believe there’s an update on the recruitment of the weather witch.” His gaze roved over his affiliates, anticipating. “Well?”  
  
Frost parted glossed lips, “Tempest and the others are returning tonight. They said the girl was difficult to convince.” Frost heaved a sigh. “They  _then_  said that she was approached by another team of mutants who sold her to a school. At this point Angel repeated the word ‘school’ with incredulity.”  
  
Erik could almost relate to her - for entirely different reasons - and the urge to go slightly hysterical. Next to him, Mystique’s folded arms fell to her sides.  
  
“The Xavier’s School For Youngsters. Charles’s school,” she whispered lowly, as though it couldn’t be said aloud, not unless it was mentioned with derision.   
  
Frost hummed. “Frankly, we need to work on our pitch. How we lost a teenage girl to an academic institute is beyond me.”  
  
“Charles always… had a way with words,” Raven mused, a smile accompanying the thought. Suddenly she was Raven again, and Erik had to look away.

“Speaking of whom,” the White Queen intoned, directing her gaze at him, “Charles Xavier left a message for you.”   
  
“Where?” Erik bellowed, his brain hearing what it chose, and all it registered was  _Charles_ , another  _message_ , something good or something bad but mainly  _something_ , and it shattered his authoritative demeanour in an instant.   
  
Frost found Erik’s desperation amusing, naturally. Her grin curled into an open-mouthed laugh.   
  
“Up here,” she said, pointing to the crown of her head with a gloved finger.   
  
At this moment, Erik despised the woman for what she knew. What Charles could’ve easily scribbled into a letter was now what she knew, and Erik didn’t just despise her, he envied her, resented her, because she had nothing to do with them, and yet—  
  
Frost cupped each of her elbows and ended her laughter with an exhale as she recalled, “His exact words were: you’re a dickhead, Erik, I saw what you did on the telly.”  
  
Erik blinked.  
  
At least, it explained a great deal.   
  
He wordlessly dismissed the meeting, ducking out to flee into his office. A taut, convoluted knot of emotions was forming at the base of his stomach. But he felt himself smile, a sad, weary smile, at the thought of Charles’s message—yes, he certainly had a way with words. And if Erik was going to succeed, he would have to remain impervious to Charles’s sweet talk.  
  
Everything Erik was doing, Charles would soon realise, was for the good of mutantkind. For him and for them.   


 

 

———

  
  
A dozen guards were stationed around the perimeters, armed and alert, and each of them fell like ragdolls onto the gravel. They collapsed as easily as the chain link fence, and the gate that stood behind it was stubborn, but nothing a vigorous tornado of whistling wind couldn’t bring down.   
  
Side by side, they trooped forward, an alliance of mutant solidarity on legs, wings and paws. Worthington Labs was just a start. Every flask and tube of samples destroyed was a mere warning. The ruined machinery and dead scientists were a precaution, a defense against their own abolishment. Every substance and strategy that crafted their demise was crushed under their boots. Toxic spills, fire alarms, scattered files. Every shackled prisoner kept captive was freed. Given a choice to make: fight back or live in fear of becoming a victim again.  
  
Mutants were amassing. Runaways, disowned, liberated mutants of every variation imaginable were forming the Brotherhood.  
  
They grew.   
  
And for every addition, the silence between him and Charles grew tenfold. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you still miss him?”  
  
Erik pinched the bridge of his nose, or as much of it as his helmet would allow. He lazily gestured to the empty loveseat opposite him. Taking the hint, Mystique folded herself into it, body turned to face him.   
  
They were taking up residence in a lavishly furnished condo, setting base until the owners returned from a trip and the Brotherhood gave them the last surprise of their lives.   
  
He uncrossed his legs and tiredly asked her, “To whom are you referring, Mystique.” He didn’t need to feign the exhaustion in his voice.   
  
“Who are you thinking of?”  
  
Erik’s eyes snapped to her. He set down the glass of scotch that was nestled between the tips of two dangling fingers. The liquor tasted too warm when he drew a short swallow. He was sitting close to the fireplace, burning in silence.   
  
Or perhaps not. His discretion may have had a mute form, but—  
  
“Um, Erik? You’re peeling the furniture.”  
  
The first thing his gaze flitted to was the chair floating above their heads, spinning in its own orbit as small flakes of metal dissociated from the chair legs and rained down on the carpet like shimmering confetti. He cast his eyes around the room and found his absentminded fumbling had in fact extended to deface the room and everything in it.   
  
Mystique watched appraisingly as he began reversing his distracted ministrations. Metallic mosaic pieces melded back into place. His mind did a check for uneven textures, incongruity, mistakes in his art.   
  
“Can’t you just bite your nails instead?” Mystique muttered.   
  
Erik decided that he would have to seek his privacy elsewhere. He shifted to his feet, determined to deteriorate some of the decor upstairs, when Mystique rose to stand and spoke up.   
  
“Listen, I—I know you’re upset. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? You miss him.”  
  
“We’re not talking about this.” He should’ve marched away, but he stayed. He stayed because he was afflicted by the implication of Charles, it didn’t even require a mention of his name.  
  
“He hasn’t written to you in over a month.” She reached for his wrist and held it between two hands. Erik slipped out of her touch and turned his back to her.  
  
“We change locations frequently, he wouldn’t know where to—”  
  
“You really think that? Come on, Erik. Telepath.”  
  
“I,” Erik swept his hand across his forehead.   
  
“Do you think that… maybe he’s…”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Erik bit out before he could hear the end of her sentence. “No no no  _no_.”  
  
Behind him, the shape-shifter let out a brief, soft chuckle, completely devoid of mirth.   
  
“I’m sure Charles is okay, Erik. But how would you know? You’ve blocked him from your mind. He doesn’t write to you anymore. Even Emma said he’s stopped communicating with her. How do you know he’s okay if you have no contact with him?”  
  
There was, ever so often, a time when Mystique was right, and Erik could say nothing. Nothing that was relevant. Nothing that answered her questions. He could only retreat to escape in his bubble of oblivion.  
  
“If he had access to my mind, he could…” Erik pressed his palms against the wall. It was as though his heartbeat throbbed against the skin of his hands, right down to the heels of his feet. “It’s a risk I have to take in order for him to stay out of our way, where he’s  _safe_.”  
  
Mystique was padding closer to him, her shadow overlapping his on the wall.  
  
“You know some days I would’ve killed for a telepathy-blocking helmet. There’s this constant paranoia that he could be in your mind at any moment and it was  _anxiety_ -inducing.” She leant on one leg, her head bowing to fall on Erik’s shoulder, but she changed her mind at the last minute and kept it upright. Erik briefly wondered, just how much affection did she get from her brother that she now expected from  _him_? “And then he made me a promise that he’d never look, even if he was really tempted. He said he won’t look as long as I always spoke my mind. That way, it’ll be even.”

She was suddenly so young, too young — to be away from home and living like a bandit, learning how to kill, and the person who was teaching her how to do so was the only man she could talk to about her soft, loving brother.  
  
Erik swallowed. “Why are you telling me this?”   
  
Her answer was a doleful mumble, “I don’t know.” Then she sniffed, let out one heartful sob, and added, “I just wanted to talk about him, I guess.”  
  
She was going to harden. Eventually. She would suffer through this initial phase of separation, but she would see what her survival counts on. She would understand that she had made the right decision at the right time. She would have to dig deeper inside of herself to find the void and confine herself in its protection. She was going to become aloof to emotions.  
  
Her wet sobs were enough indication that she had a long way to go.   
  
Erik brought his hands around his neck, fingers digging in. The edge of the helmet weighed down on him with a brutal unforgiveness—it resonated, strongly, with the weight in Charles’s heavy gaze at the beach. The sand beneath him had coloured with blood. Watery blue eyes had repeatedly glanced up at the helmet. And there was too much offense and hurt and betrayal in that gaze for Erik to have thought he was forgiven.  
  
He tipped his head forward to press it against the wall. Mystique’s voice felt like it was miles away, but eventually it was too loud to ignore.   
  
“Look at me,” she was pleading, and Erik could finally hear it well enough to identify the sheer sorrow that shook her words.  
  
He was entirely unwilling to overwhelm his eyes with the shocking blue of her skin, but he braved a slow turn until he was peering over his shoulder. Blue was sometimes difficult to look at — a clear sky, peaceful when nothing in the world it looms over ever is. Serpentine scales, beautiful artistry of nature, doomed to never be accepted. The colour of eyes that found their way into his dreams too often. It took more effort to look away, in the end; Mystique needed his attention, she’d demanded it, but he cowered, and he let her see the weakness in his tired eyes.  
  
Her shadow straightened its posture, as though fulfilled with discovery.  
  
Then it started to morph.   
  
There was the delicate sound of scales tapping against scales as colours and textures transformed, redecorating her skin, rearranging her physique and stature into broader shoulders, shorter hair, a stockier build—   
  
Erik gaped.  
  
An entirely new shadow bled into the wall, darkening as it neared, and Erik’s brain stalled for a moment as recognition caught in his throat. It felt both like a punch to the gut and the spread of a soothing balm when he whipped round to gaze at the shape that took form before him.  
  
It wasn’t as though he’d forgotten how ridiculously captivating Charles Xavier was. And clearly, neither had his sister, recreating his features in finality as her reptilian eyes blinked to reveal a disarming blue.   
  
It was a shock, rather, that an imposter, a replica, could have the breathless impact on him that he’d thought was an exaggeration all this time.  
  
He wanted to loathe Mystique for pulling this.   
  
But his heart was helplessly grateful for this deception—how long had he been mourning the loss of this sight? Every short male man with a generous tuft of brown hair was Charles until his brain knew better. Every library smelt like Charles’s presence. He saw Charles in posh cars, on bar stools, in restroom stalls, in heated daydreams, the grief that etched a frown between his brows.  
  
He never thought he would ever see him like this, through Mystique’s craft. On impulse of a wicked thought. It was like a mirage, and he was certain, for a while, that this was an illusion that would shatter if he came too close and tried to touch.

Then a round cheek fitted into his palm. Perfectly warm. Erik’s thumb brushed over a smooth little chin, up to the swell of a mouth. Those— _uncomfortably_ —desirable lips moved, said, in their owner’s voice,  
  
“And now you can’t look away.”   
  
Mystique's study of the man was chilling. His voice, all low, warm timbred, came flowing out with the confidence of practice. The relief of hearing it was like the caress of cold water on hot skin.   
  
“Can you blame me?” he breathed, curling his fingers so he was cupping the face in his hands.   
  
Then there was a falter.   
  
Erik took a step back and watched from afar, spooked by the sudden, unwanted change. Round pupils thinned to slits. Gradually, a fiery yellow formed around them and drowned out the entirety of bright eyes, soaking with tears. The ruse failed to uphold and crumbled as she did, reverting back to the skin she was born in.   
  
Her face fell into her hands as she wept. The pain tore out of her.   
  
“How could we hurt him so bad? He loved us the most.” Erik took another step back, as though he could dodge the truth of her words. “ _We_  loved him the most.”  
  
It was so easy for her to cry about it. So easy for her to let it out.   
  
But the more Erik felt the sorrow seep in, the more he turned to stone, numbing himself from the anguish that threatened to bring him down to his knees. He needed to be composed, the rigid, invincible leader figure, the new man that Mystique could trust with the sight of her vulnerable tears.  
  
He turned to his memories for solace. Inky, cursive words that were written with him in mind.   
  
He needed  _Charles._  
  


 

———

  
  
  
My dear old friend,  
  
I could pretend like I’m grateful for the loss of one mind from the spectrum of thousands that I have to persistently block, but it’s your mind, and sometimes it recoiled in shame when you desired me, but it also turned me over and over until I made sense to you, and slotted into your jagged life.  
  
You could never quite understand why you fell in love with me. A privileged, naïve, insufferable man, who wore different clothes every day and flirted shamelessly with strangers. You’d only ever associate men with leads, criminals, business partners, passers-by who you didn’t owe a glance. You’d never met a man whose neck you wanted to kiss. Whose head you wanted resting against your chest. Whose arms felt like home, tight around your waist.  
  
And I remember… I remember how my lips only reached your chin, and your lips aligned with my nose, and we had to work a little bit harder to get our mouths to meet, but the result always felt like we were made for each other.  
  
Nobody will love you better than,  
  
Your dearest old friend  


 

———

  
  
He gripped the rounded dome of the helmet.   
  
In his private quarters, it felt cool under his hands.  
  
He took a deep breath, removed it from his head, baring his mind to the night—  
  
And waited.


	3. Chapter 3

Something as trite as a pillow felt like a luxury. He relaxed his head upon it, cradled by the soft, cushiony texture that accommodated the shape of his scalp. His knotted neck could move of its own accord, the sharp ridges of the helmet no longer poking his nose at unpredictable times during the night.   
  
Frost’s curious invasion of his mind was tentative at first, like a light tap on glass, before she swept in like an unwelcome guest. Erik barred his thoughts viciously, warding her off with thoughts of furious disapproval.  
  
 _Get out._  
  
Frost demonstrated what registered to him as an impressed look. Knowing her, Erik reckoned that she had underestimated his capable senses, as opposed to overestimating her own discretion. She’d rather credit Erik than admit to being at fault.  
  
 _I know, I know._  
  
Erik frowned.  _GET OUT!_  he sent, exasperated.   
  
 _I’m not interested in your lovesick mind, honey. I’ll be honest, I’m fairly disappointed. If I wanted to pine over Xavier, I’d just eavesdrop on Mystique._  
  
 _Stay in your own darned mind, Frost. Your presence gives me a bloody headache._  
  
 _More than that helmet does?_  
  
She laughed, and it felt like she was right next to his ear, her breath uncomfortably cold. Erik shuddered.   
  
When she vacated his mind, he sighed with relief.   
  
It was absurd. She was previously a close acquaintance of Shaw’s, possessed telepathic ability, had no inklings of privacy, and could trespass into his head at any time during the night — yet he was prepared to make that sacrifice if it meant he could at least hear a  _hum_  from Charles, any indication of his well being, even another jibe at him for being a dickhead.   
  
Anything.  
  
He waited.  
  
Charles didn’t flood his mind like they were underwater and breathless. He didn’t politely knock on the entrance in search of glowing, forgotten, candle-lit memories, and he certainly didn’t intertwine the branches and networks of their conscious minds to grip him while they made love on a bed that was close to breaking—  
  
None of it.   
  
Charles was a gentle, simple question:  
  
 _Is that really you?_  
  
Erik bolted upright.   
  
The feel of his sweet, uncomplicated curiosity—such a stark contrast to Frost—and the doughlike softness of his mind’s press,  _Gott_  how he’d missed it, and unknowingly he surged forward like a counterforce to Charles’s inquiry,  
  
 _CharlesCharlesCharles—you’realrightyou’reALIVE._  
  
Erik’s stomach seized when there was no immediate reply.   
  
Had he done it wrong? Did he not get across to Charles?  
  
Should he have started with an apology?  
  
 _Charles I’m sorry, I’m a dickhead._  
  
The soft sensation of being surrounded by the man’s awareness lingered, not yet departing. No, he hadn’t been abandoned just yet.   
  
Meanwhile Erik was sweating, hyper-aware of every drop that leaked down his skin—he was sitting up, attentive, narrowing his focus to even the slightest pin-drop of acknowledgment.   
  
Perhaps Charles had only wanted the answer to his question. And not necessarily a midnight chat. Erik was pretty certain that they weren’t, momentarily, on conversational terms.  
  
He would have to—negotiate, then. Come to a compromise. Anything that meant he could hear the hauntingly beautiful echo of his awareness after lamenting the loss of it for so long.   
  
 _Alright, you don’t have to reply to me. I don’t have to reply to you. Just **talk**  to me. Tell me something. Anything at all. I won’t barrel into you with my pitiable thoughts._

There was a light brush against his mind. Even the simplest, fleeting graze spoke of the sheer power that Charles contained. Erik was vulnerable to him, in this moment. Erik was also, quite decidedly, pleading for his old friend to nest in his mind once again—even if it meant radio silence on his end.  
  
 _...Promise?_  
  
Erik cut himself off sharply. He kept quiet, hoping silence was the answer Charles was demanding. It was tricky; Charles was familiar, so familiar, and Erik ached to be blanketed by his company again, to feel his projections drape over his conscious and wrap around him.   
  
 _Thank you, Erik. I hope you understand that this is… cathartic for me. I was getting quite used to just having you listen to me._  
  
There was no doubt that Charles was aware of the guilt that gnawed at Erik. He should’ve, in retrospect, mustered the courage to at least have answered Charles’s letters once, but—  
  
 _Erik you are, indeed, a dickhead. I’m glad that message was passed on and revised._  
  
Erik spluttered a laugh, embarrassingly loud in his empty room.  
  
 _I miss you._  
  
The laughter caught in his throat.  
  
It truly was more magnificent than spoken words or handwritten letters. It was the pulse of an honest, heartfelt confession, it held all the clarity of the direct uninterrupted communication between one mind and his lover—  
  
 _Oh, Erik…_  
  
He dropped onto his back, heavy on the bedsheets. Keeping his thoughts in and away from crashing into Charles’s was equivalent to the effort needed to stop a gaping wound from oozing with blood. He held onto himself tightly, eyes squeezed shut.   
  
You’re tired. Go to sleep. Have some rest.  
  
He wanted to protest. Belatedly, he realised that he had no voice in this conversation. Charles was in control, he had advocated him the authority the very moment he slipped the helmet off, and if Charles thought he required rest, then he knew best. Erik would comply.  
  
Placing his hands on his chest, he eased his face out of a frown. It felt like the right thing to do for Charles, if he was watching. Charles always hated it when Erik frowned.   
  
But since when did Erik act according to Charles’s favour?   
  
With the past few weeks still a blur of bloodshed in his wake, he was almost certain that Charles hadn’t been complacent with The Brotherhood’s recent ploys.  
  
It went without saying, then, that the moment morning dwelled and duty beckoned, Charles couldn’t have been pleased when Erik donned the helmet again. Became Magneto. Rattled off commands and decimated an underground mutant experimentation facility.   
  
He couldn’t have pleased his friend with his endeavours.   
  
Despite it, the second he found himself alone the following evening—his schedule was cleared of the designated hours usually reserved for sulking—he was swamped by the smothering warmth of his friend’s mental embrace before his helmet was even fully off his head.  
  
 _Hello, Erik. I see you’ve been busy today._  
  
Erik sighed, cheerful, as he kicked off his boots. He knew the deriding tone for what it was, but he still fluttered internally at how readily Charles had leapt at his invitation. Charles was a busy man who didn’t idly sit around in his study, waiting for a string to pick up on. For him to have reached out in a blink of an eye—it made Erik feel hot and tight beneath his breast.  
  
 _There’s a name for that. You wouldn’t know it—not where you are. So far away from me. Come here, come back and I’ll tell you all about it._  
  
It wasn’t just about the tolling emotions in his chest.  
  
It was an offer. A second chance. An opportunity to desert everything he’s built and commit to Charles’s counterintuitive, aggravatingly dismissive integrationist methods. How much more would Erik have to patiently point out the holes in Charles’s logic before it was too late to for them to act? Was Charles so content to watch mutantkind be exterminated around him from the window of his preposterously affluent school?   
  
Neither of them slept very much that night.   
  
Charles felt like fingers through his hair, a broad hand on his shoulder.   
  
The helmet made his neck ache.

 

They relocated again the next night, and their means of transport was an age-old, weary truck that smelt of damp and urine. Erik sat among his affiliates in the back, congratulated them on their good work of the day, and wondered when they’d reach their destination so he could take off his helmet.  
  
Then rage, unmitigated rage, curdled in his stomach, sickening him up to his throat.   
  
To think Charles wanted to sway Erik and bring him to his side. Where there was security and bomb-proof shelters and hot meals. Where he would be turning his back to his mutant brothers and sisters, letting their lives be at risk. He wasn’t a traitor.  
  
Especially not to those people to whom he had promised a future of mutant-led civilization. Mutant supremacy, mutant government, mutant order.   
  
But Charles didn’t want that, did he?  
  
And so it was the truck that smelt of piss and food that had seen better, more edible days.  
  
The helmet, however, continued to only come off at night, in privacy. The latter couldn’t be obtained until three days later, when Erik’s rage had subsided and their base seemed to look promising, enough to be deemed temporarily stable.  
  
He extricated the helmet slowly. The mirror in front of him showed him just how rough and ragged he looked. Would Charles even grace his mind tonight?  
  
 _There you are._  
  
Charles’s mind was alight with eagerness.   
  
 _I’ve been so worried about you._  
  
Erik sighed, defeated, because it was ridiculous just how quickly he could forget why he was supposed to be mad at Charles.  
  
He seated himself down, still facing the mirror. There was a substantial change in his expression that he deliberately let Charles take notice of.  
  
 _Thank you for that._  
  
Erik lied back, hands behind his head.  
  
 _Today a student accidentally called me Dad._  
  
And then he was leaning up on his elbows with his heart feeling like it had been crushed—and suddenly, viciously, he hated himself. He was outraged to think he could hate the man, when Charles was doing something good for mutantkind too.   
  
He was only doing what he did best.   
  
He made everyone, even the most hapless recluse, feel at home.  
  


 

———

  
  
It may have occurred to Charles, on a few odd occasions, that Erik’s sexual appetite had reached a new peak ever since Charles had set up camp in his mind.   
  
But every time he slipped his hands under the blankets and clutched himself, thinking of Charles, the man in question would fade out into an unsettling absence that almost dispelled his arousal, if he wasn’t so sure that Charles was occupied with his own libido.   
  
Until the night where Charles broadcasted everything.  
  
Every little thing. 


	4. Chapter 4

At first he thought someone else was in the room with him. He threw cautious glances at each innocently empty corner of his room. He created some more secure locks for the door to be bolted, then wrenched the window shut. He glimpsed under his dresser, under the bed.   
  
There was nobody around, and no way to explain why the touch against his lower back had felt so real.   
  
He stripped his clothes off slowly, quietly, the better to keep alert for any sound or movement.   
  
When Charles bounded into his mind, he couldn’t help the way he jumped.  
  
 _Erik! Sorry, that was me. Didn’t mean to scare you. My control slipped._  
  
Erik held a palm to his forehead, The most powerful telepath he’d ever known was a clutz, and he just happened to frighten the most feared man in the country. It was all slightly… thrilling.  
  
He’d missed Charles. The eventful two week trip upstate certainly hadn’t left him with a lot of time to engage with Charles in private.  
  
 _Sit down, my love. You’re absolutely exhausted._  
  
Erik felt his heart go heavy, and he lowered himself onto the mattress, dragged down by the weight. He was only in his underclothes, out of the uncomfortable attire of the day. Exertion fatigued his body. The need to collapse into sleep overtook it.   
  
But the moment his eyes blinked shut, a vision flickered before him. It was all pale luminescence, nothing he could make out. He had the distinct feeling that once again Charles’s control was slipping, as he’d put it. Whatever could be making him so clumsy tonight?   
  
He closed his eyes again, and—  
  
Another flash appeared, and this time it was a blurry, distant hand.   
  
He was now contemplating reaching out to Charles and making him aware of his obscure projections, but then came another, and it was so vibrantly clear that it stole all the sleep from Erik’s eyes.  
  
Somehow the image looked like it came straight from Charles’s very own eyes, a glance of his perspective and it was as though—as though Charles was looking down at himself, his entire body on display.  
  
 _Naked_  and on display.   
  
The moment it disappeared, Erik solemnly watched his chest rise and fall.  
  
Did Charles do that deliberately? Was he trying to  _kill_  Erik?  
  
Of course, at some point, every part of Charles had been familiar to Erik—in fact Charles’s nudity was more favourable to him than anything else, and he’d show him just how much in every way possible—but the blessed and beautiful sight had just become a memory.   
  
Now his gaze was filled with that very sight, and Erik expelled a sigh, relaxing against the sheets under his bare skin. Charles was probably in a generous mood. If he was, however, gazing at his body and inadvertently sending his observation to Erik, then it was hardly a situation that demanded he put the helmet back on to block him, and by doing so, worry him. He briefly considered directing a thought his way, as he was instructed not to do, but then—  
  
Charles seemed to be moving around. His hand reappeared, and this time, it was travelling between his parted legs, pillows stacked in various towers under his knees and thighs to keep them wide open without aid. The palm of his hand was covering his cock, and then it looked to be sliding down it, soft as it was, shifting the flesh gently to a side and reach lower.   
  
Erik swallowed. He stared at the pale, freckled thighs, the length of completely prone legs. He tried not to dwell on them, darting his eyes up to the expanse of his chest just at the periphery of the projected vision. One pink little nipple was being pressed between two fingers. And then he was looking up at the plain ceiling, sight bleary—Erik wasn’t in control at all, it was Charles; Erik was getting to see everything the man looked at, like he was sitting in the back of his head, absorbing some of his leaked thoughts.

Then Charles was blinking and righting himself, head tipping forward again. He let out a whine. His hand found the other nipple, pinched it daringly, just the way Erik would.  
  
Just the way Erik  _used to._  Slightly relentless but always soothing. Always satiating.  
  
Charles’s hand ascended from his chest to his mouth, and two fingers came back glistening wet at the tips. They stroked a path down to his nipple again, this time rubbing, stroking, the way Erik would do if he was there right now, nestled around him.  
  
There was the most delightful sound, a sharp hitch of breath that sounded like the right amount of pressure. Erik felt his own body shiver. Charles was the most tempting illusion of nearness, sight and sound suggesting he was a breath away, but it wasn’t real. Too good to be.  
  
In reality, Charles was miles apart.   
  
In the projection he casted, he was dipping both hands between his thighs, and the one that went the furthest probed inwards once, joltingly, before shying away.  
  
Charles’s chest heaved. He wore a sheen of sweat that flattered his skin, mapping out where Erik would lap up first and sweep away with his tongue. It was getting more and more difficult to remove himself from the scenario and let Charles do to himself whatever he intended to without imagining his own hands and lips making an appearance.   
  
And meanwhile, Charles persisted on sole efforts, running the breadth of his palm up and down his abdomen. It looked more defined, and Erik worried—had he been losing a bit too much weight? The telepath continued to penetrate himself with a licked finger, his cock still limp against his equally limp thigh.  
  
Erik squeezed his eyes shut. This was—  
  
He held a fist to his mouth. How was he not aroused yet? What had he  _done_  to Charles?   
  
It didn’t deter him from proceeding to uncap a tube of lubricating gel and pour out a considerable amount onto his fingers, drizzling some over his chest unknowingly. His fingers—Erik had always found them so  _small_ , the way he could fit them in his mouth with ease, even though they looked formidable up at his temple—were shaking.   
  
Slowly, he lowered his hand again, bypassing his cock, and reached into where his hole was. Erik had always loved watching Charles exalting himself into pleasure, fisting his cock as he’d widen his hole with three messily crammed fingers, eyes always on Erik. And then it would be a blur of contortions. For now, everything was achingly slow and tentative. Charles’s hand was moving with care, sinking down and rising to pull out, and even though Erik couldn’t see much, he felt heat gather in his groin.   
  
Each breath Charles let out sounded forced. He was removing his hand now, wiping his fingers on his thigh. There was a moment where his friend simply lay back, as though bracing himself. The connection between them seemed to become amplified, and then he heard,  
  
 _I miss you, Erik. I wish you were here._  
  
Erik pressed his knuckles into his eyes. He rubbed at them and blinked wetly, and he was back in his room. Facing the ceiling.   
  
Suddenly, everything looked dull. His bed looked empty. His entire body felt useless.  
  
“Charles…” he whispered out, waiting. Waiting for Charles to restore their severed bond with one desperate thought.   
  
 _I wish it was you… your body next to mine. Your hands inside me._  
  
It suddenly felt like the lights were snapped on after too long in the dark.  
  
He was back in the mansion, in Charles’s master bedroom, the one where they had first played chess and toasted to  _our fellow mutants, and their health_. He couldn’t tell if the memory was his or Charles’s, but he was glad to relive it all the same.   
  
Charles was still splayed on his back, the only difference was the way he was further down on the bed with his head hitched higher to get a better view. He was trying, Erik watched, to get a leg closer to his chest. It didn’t look like an easy task to accomplish. There was a grunt of futility as his limbs failed to cooperate, and Erik felt like every single one of his heartstrings was being viciously plucked. Then, finally, Charles resorted to resting the flesh of his leg over the top of the metal railings that framed his bed. By the time he’d managed it, he was panting.

What  _had_  he done to Charles? And, even worse—how could he still be in denial over it? It wasn’t like stubbornly rejecting the truth would make it any less grave. Or any less true. He’d done this to his friend. He may not have initiated the shooting of the bullet, if anything he was fully poised to protect Charles from it, but he was definitely foolish—in hindsight—to have removed the bullet from inside Charles’s body. It had just been such an outright  _ugly_  sensation, a deathly bullet dug inside healthy flesh, and he  _had_  to take it out. Perhaps they’d never know what was the instigator.  
  
But it was hardly just the physical damage that had Charles this broken and unkempt. Erik was fully responsible for every tear that warmed Charles’s cheeks.  
  
There was something—something  _explicitly_  phallic placed next to Charles, that was abruptly more distracting than the flurry of Erik’s thoughts. It could only, really, be exactly what he was thinking.   
  
And Charles was now reaching for it, holding it in his hand as his other retrieved the lubricating gel and tipped it over the pseudo-head of the penis. From the slit down, droplets raced. Charles placed the model against his stomach and ran his fist up and down it. He was doing so succinctly, simply spreading the moisture, but it still looked erotic. Erik stifled a moan.   
  
It looked as though it was made of rubber, the way it curved forwards and back with little force. It was also rather large, and while Erik hated to compare, Charles  _must_ have had Erik’s measurements in mind when he’d first seen the item. It was textured with wiry vein-like lines all around its girth, and it even came with a thick pink head that protruded at the top. It was certainly an interesting simulation.   
  
Charles lowered it down between his legs. His breathing had visibly picked up pace. Erik wanted to be there, holding his hand. Making sure he was wide enough. Adjusting his  _own_  cock inside Charles, just the way he wanted it.  
  
But from here he was simply the voyeur, watching Charles instill his own pleasure and resisting any reinforcement of his own. He wanted to savour every moment. Every twitch from his cock and every moan of his own name,  
  
“Erik,” he was saying, repeatedly, as he pushed the dildo inside himself. He keened with fervour, clenching his hand around it and looking away from the intrusion inside him to stare at the blank wall, gain his bearings. As he did so, the projection blurred around the edges. So long as it upheld and didn’t shatter—  
  
He moaned aloud again, this time feverishly loud. Erik would’ve worried for the other ears in the mutant manor if he wasn’t so charged by the way Charles had said his name. Even after so much pain, this much love?  
  
Or maybe just a longing. Raw, sexual, longing. It definitely made his name sound sweet.   
  
He cupped the base and filled himself halfway. His fingers slipped against the slicked rubber material but still shoved in and out of his arse hole in ceaseless jerks, pressing it and even twisting it. The latter made Charles shut his eyes and  _scream_.   
  
Erik had to roll onto his stomach. For a while, he was grateful for the sudden disappearance of the projection. He placed his hands either sides of his head and concentrated on breathing as his hips rolled into the warm sheets. His eyes were shut but he was only seeing Charles, fucking himself with a contraption that reminded him of Erik.   
  
At least Charles was more... organised, he supposed. Erik was rutting into his bed like a manic animal, the mattress squeaking in protest underneath him.   
  
Damnit. He wanted to be near Charles. He wanted his softness and his voice and his lovely eyes, and there was suddenly nothing he hated more than how much he  _bloody wanted everything_  and how aggravating it was when he didn’t. When he so easily could.   
  
His open-mouthed moan came muffled against the covers. He couldn’t breathe, the air around him too warm. His cock jerked without touch and spilled hot against his thigh, where it was tucked. For all the relief it gave him, he felt slightly revolting, coming inside his boxers, all juvenile. Worse, anyone with the power to penetrate his mental shields would have been fairly entertained. He cursed himself, his state.

But then Charles was back, and his mind was brimming with  _ErikErikErik—misshavingyou—wantyou—ErikErikErik_. He picked his head off the bed and stopped feeling sorry for himself. He went inert when he saw himself back in Charles’s bedroom, the curtains never so bright as they looked now. Everything looked electric, stunningly.  
  
Charles’s hands were swift and strong around his cock, and the response he got from it was a firm rise. Sweat collected in the inside of Charles’s elbows. His hole was still full, legs still parted, mouth still moaning. It seemed like just getting an erection had winded Charles, and now the effort to orgasm was taking its toll. For the umpteenth time tonight, Erik wanted to be there.   
  
Especially when Charles peaked, his body following through, and his come gushed out messily. He dropped both hands against his stomach and simply watched the world around get dimmer and dimmer, then turn black. Even the blackness was eerily beautiful. When it cleared, his vision was sharp and vigilant—Erik assumed he was checking his ministrations went unheard. Charles let out a breath, and as did he.  
  
Charles always liked to clean up immediately. He remembered.  
  
But Charles simply lay stiff, his unclean fingers at his sides. He sniffed, and Erik’s pulse quickened with worry.   
  
He used the back of his wrist to dab at his eyes.   
  
“ _Oh God, Erik_ ,” he whispered, partly in his mind. His lips were quivering. Erik’s hands closed into fists. Why was he not there?  
  
Because he was afraid. He was afraid of what Charles meant to him, and just how much that would come in the way of what he wanted to accomplish for all of mutantkind. There was a lot to be afraid of. There was a lot of love in his heart, and a lot of obstacles in his missions.   
  
Charles was slowly moving again. Tears still stained his eyes as he reached for a packet of wet wipes from a side table and tore out a bundle, wiping his hands and his stomach, then his hole, once the device was removed. He shifted his leg down with two careful hands and set it down next to the other. Then he stared down at himself.  
  
And he was covering his mouth, crying again. Crying like  _one of the children did the other day..._  
  
Erik felt himself crumble.  
  
Charles wept into his hands and stuttered on a hiccup, so much sorrow pouring out of him that Erik wished he could look away and wipe it all from his memory so the sound could somehow no longer  _exist_. Charles turned his head into the pillow and went quiet. As though there was some way to tamper it, his mind’s voice was low, drained of any rage, any passion, anything at all that Erik would’ve rather had, than his defeated confession.  
  
 _Erik… I could hardly… I could hardly feel anything. Just… couldn’t. I couldn’t._  
  


 

———

  
  
“They know where we are.”  
  
Erik nonchalantly addressed Frost through the mirror as he fixed his tie.  
  
“Well,” he droned. “Make them some tea. While we wait for them to arrive.”  
  
“Is this a joke to you? The military are on our heels. I got a read on an official and he was in a board meeting. They’re planning to create a division of  _peacekeepers_  in alliance with the army. They’re targeting mutants.”  
  
“Then do something about it while I’m off.”  
  
He sauntered out into the foyer, helmet adjusted on his head. He almost bumped into a group of mutants assembled by the door. Mystique stood staring at him with a frown, glancing down at his clothes. He nodded at her.  
  
“Mystique’s in charge while I’m absent.”  
  
Frost sneered at him when he turned to look at her, just to see her sour expression.  
  
“I can’t believe this,” she gritted out, hands rock-hard and glistening diamond.   
  
Erik felt slightly light-headed, devoid of his duties. Mystique trained her eyes on him the whole time he stalked to the door, her expression unreadable.  
  
Then she suddenly said, “Tell him I miss him too.”   
  
Erik stopped and turned around. Mystique slunk backwards a step, staring at her feet.   
  
“Just… just tell him that much. Please.”  
  
Erik nodded stiffly.   
  
He was sure to.


	5. Chapter 5

He waited for some reminder that this was a terrible idea.   
  
Millions came to mind.  
  
There was a bite in the air that made the journey a lot more chilling. In his head he was recalling the surveillance the mansion was generously decked out with. He was aware of the renovation that had taken place, causing a considerable dearth of metal around everything from the scaffolding to the infrastructure of the school. The exceedingly large-scale precaution should’ve been flattering, but he felt utterly redundant as he planted his feet down on the concrete facing the entrance gates.  
  
Sure enough that within the walls and beneath the high, chandelier-adorned ceilings, gatherings were held specifically to plot against Erik and his men. But when a common enemy would rise— _will_  rise, he thought grimly—there would be very little his abilities could depend on if he ever stooped to hold out a helping hand.   
  
Yet in every way he imagined it, Charles would decline—and he wouldn’t let the word  _enemy_  taint their relationship by simplifying it, boiling it down to a mere dynamic between wrong and right when it was much, much more complicated than that—there would never be an agreeable arrangement between them. Equally stubborn, they could talk for ages and argue for longer.   
  
It didn’t make a difference to how much they loved each other. Erik clinged to that very thought, let it widen the span of his shoulders, lift his chin and inflate his chest as he levitated himself above the ground. Security cameras twitched in his direction. Swiftly, he pointed them away. Motion sensors were competently avoided from his elevated position, where he was cloaked by the dark of the night ascending towards where he knew Charles’s master bedroom was situated. The curtains were partly drawn; there was enough of a ledge protruding from the window for him to seat himself on as he rather unabashedly peered inside for his friend.  
  
His bedroom was empty. Nobody at his desk, nobody on his bed. Everything was neat enough to look untouched. It was absurd to think that only a few nights ago he was presented with the view of this setting, decorated with every beautiful inch that Charles laid out. Now, from here, with only the moon’s glow a source of light, he saw:  
  
A giant medical bed that took up most of the room, bordered with crossbars and electrically adjusted at a reclining angle. There was an overbed table next to a bedside chair, on top of which laid a medical box and some first aid equipment. An IV drip was tucked away to a side, handrails were secured onto practically every piece of furniture, and a few smaller wheelchairs were folded against the wall.   
  
Erik placed his hands flat against the window.   
  
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It shouldn’t have been like this, with him perched on a window sill, inspecting the infirmary that was now his lover’s room.   
  
He leaned off the cold surface when there was a sudden flash of white light as the bedroom door swung open. In entered a young woman dressed in nurse’s scrubs, holding a set of bedclothes in one hand and a bathrobe in the other. While she was still preoccupied, Erik shifted to conceal himself behind the side of the window covered with curtains. He managed to peer around it to watch as she set her items down on the bed and headed into the en suite bathroom. The windows were soundproof, he concluded, when he heard not even a whisper as she bustled around Charles’s rooms. She looked like she knew where everything was, the way she opened his wardrobe and picked out a folded pile of clothes, casually pushing a pedal that straightened out the bed before spreading a blanket across it, all practical ease, like the routine was second nature.   
  
The nurse strolled in and out of the bathroom before heading for the door, wedging it open with a foot as her mouth curled into a sudden, amicable smile. And Erik knew what he would see next, knew what to expect when he saw the shadow roll closer, but there was really never going to be another sight that could bewitch him this way: the sweaty hands, the gaping mouth, the light headed feeling of love, all so incongruous on a man like him and yet nothing had ever felt better—

He stopped to inhale. Exhale. Stay calm. His breath fogged the window, and he pawed at it until it was clear again, suddenly helpless for the sight of Charles. Charles, who wheeled in jovially with a polite grin on his lips, infectious enough for the nurse to catch as she nodded her head and stepped aside.   
  
Then they exchanged words, the nurse gesturing to herself in a gesture that seemed to indicate she was seeking permission. Charles nodded and flapped a hand in the air, prompting the nurse to leave, and as soon as the door closed behind her, the smile held tight on Charles’s face dropped in an instant. It vanished, slipped from his eyes and lips and those beautiful lines around his mouth, leaving only his tired face. Alone in his bedroom, he tipped his head back against the crude material that made up his headrest and released a long, extravagant sigh of air that spoke of his entire day. Erik was ready to brave the surge of self-loathing that was rising to his throat, but then—  
  
Charles yawned, eyes and nose all scrunched up to give way for the wide gape of his mouth, and he looked so adorably kitten-like that it didn’t even make sense for him to be the same man Erik feared more than he was willing to admit.  
  
Perhaps, it would’ve been easier if they were in fact ill-willed enemies. They couldn’t have possibly parted on worse terms, he thought; the way he’d left Charles might be a suitable outcome to wish upon his most hated rival, but Erik had grieved for his friend. Despite becoming a stone in his path, Erik wished him well, wished him to always be out of harm’s way—and that only complicated matters, in the end, because hating Charles would be so much easier.   
  
He would know, he mused to himself, for the way he resented so readily. It suddenly felt like Charles was in his head, and these were his thoughts—so obsessed he was. Sometimes a Charles-like conscious would take over him, too often and yet, too late, the disappointed voice of concern that lived as a reminder that he would never be able to please the one person who mattered immensely.   
  
And other times it seemed like their love was the only thing they had in common. Which Erik would never stop being grateful for—and which  _also_  meant that he could place steady hands on his cold helmet and free his mind from it. He held it out awkwardly for a while, as though he had no idea how it got there, before turning his head to face the window.   
  
At the same time, Charles’s head was turning to face him, stiff hands clutching at the armrests. When the shock morphed Charles’s features larger, the expression unchanging for a while, Erik finally let himself glance down at the chair.   
  
It — really did —  _exist_. He was baffled by the incoherence of his thoughts. He’d known about Charles’s paralysis for so long. He saw his legs motionless in Charles’s projections. He frequently heard remarks about the professor telepath, words too demeaning to recall used to describe him, as though it would get Erik to favour them.  
  
Erik would snap at them for their audacity, if he had the right: To the world, he was Charles’s worst enemy. Between just the two of them, he was the reason for Charles’s handicap.   
  
His shoulders sank. Then why did he come here, baring his brain?   
  
If he turned to his left, he’d see his answer. Setting his helmet down on the ledge, he turned to look over his shoulder, and saw Charles steering himself around by the wheels of his chair. He no longer looked shocked, simply determined to reach his lover. He mobilized smoothly across the carpet, long adept to the manual demands of his chair.   
  
When he came to a halt, Erik was startled by how close they were. Only the glass of the window dared to stand between them, until the moment Charles broke out of his silent reverie to haul the window open.   
  
The wind was wild tonight, swaying in every direction it saw. After successfully prying strands of Erik’s hair out of their partition, it swept into Charles’s room, flicking the collar of his dress shirt on the way in.   
  
With so much to say, they said nothing. Charles remained where he was, as near in person as he was in mental spirit, a waft of enthusiastic energy waiting to envelop him.

It didn’t feel like the last time they’d met had been in Cuba, in their matching gear, two fast friends suddenly too aware of the divide between them. But if they put aside the irreconcilable clash in their mentalities, stripped away the responsibility of being the other’s nemesis, and ignored how much they were burdened by the opposing roles they upheld—  
  
They were just two friends who loved each other madly.   
  
Erik openly wondered how much more he would have to shiver before Charles would invite him in.  
  
“Oh.” Charles placed a hand on his chest. “How rude of me.” He rolled himself further back into the room, making space for him, which he gestured to with a wide arm. “Come in.”  
  
With as much grace that could be managed, he swung his legs inside and landed on the carpet. Charles grimaced at his boots, and instead of protesting that they were clean, he crouched down to begin unlacing them. His friend gazed at him with a small smile, then skirted around him to get to the window again.   
  
Erik worked on his shoes absently, his head turned over a shoulder to watch Charles as he pulled the window by its jamb. His biceps swelled beneath his shirtsleeves, and Erik felt an enormous pulse of attraction for the man. He’d changed in so many ways, and yet he was still the man Erik wanted by his side.   
  
He was almost too engrossed in his thoughts to notice the way Charles casually jutted a hand to tip his helmet off the window sill until it was tumbling over the edge and falling into the shrubbery below. By the time Charles had shut the window fully closed, his expression unapologetic, Erik was too amused to be angry.  
  
Charles drew the curtains, then wheeled over towards Erik. He returned his smile for a pleasing breath of a moment, then ducked his head to glance at his hands.  
  
“It’s either me or the helmet, right?”  
  
Erik paused. He sighed, tugged off his boot, set it next to the other, then moved to sit on his knees. Charles drew closer, wheels pressing into the carpet as he parked himself directly in front of Erik. Charles extended a hand to gently tame his hair from the wind’s damage, his warm fingers brushing Erik’s cold skin. He shuffled closer on his knees until he was almost leaning against Charles’s legs.   
  
 _Charles’s legs._  Erik wrapped his hand around Charles’s ankle, feeling not even a twitch of response, then slid his palm up to his friend’s knee. He stroked once with his thumb—by now Charles’s hand in his hair was inert—then pressed his face against it, stifling a loud cry of apology.   
  
“ _Shhh._  Stop it.” Charles was shoving him back by the shoulders. He picked his head up and saw a small stain of his tears on Charles’s slacks. “We’re not doing this.”  
  
Erik placed his hands atop Charles’s on his shoulders and brought them down to his line of sight.  _Oh_ , how he’d missed these hands. He turned them over, palms up, and kissed all the pen marks and blisters he encountered.   
  
“Erik,” Charles said, snatching his hands away and placing them on his chair wheels. Erik looked up at his friend, dropping his hands. “It’s good to see you,” he murmured, but it sounded too detached, more like the way a doctor would greet their patient. The initial astonishment of seeing Erik at his window was slipping away from his eyes like it was never there, or worse, like it was never meant.   
  
Charles started to open the distance between them, rolling his chair around Erik to the centre of his bedroom.   
  
“I wish you’d told me you were coming,” he sighed, undoing his wrist cuffs.   
  
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”   
  
Erik felt remarkably pathetic as he said the words. He’d sacrificed a lot to be here, Charles must have known, and yet he’d left him cold on his knees in a corner that his back was turned on. Erik passed a hand over his face.  
  
“The other night you were  _begging_  for me—”  
  
“I was stupid,” Charles interrupted. “I was a little drunk, a little— _very_  upset and I lost control of my thoughts.” His voice cracked with the memory. “You weren’t supposed to hear any of it, and I apologise for how needy I sounded.”

Erik sprang to his feet and strode over to where Charles was sitting.   
  
“Charles, that night,” he began, watching the way smaller, paler fingers curled up. “That night whatever I saw and heard may not have been for me, but it doesn’t change what you said. You don’t have to regret what happened and you don’t have to apologise for it.” Erik didn’t even realise how quickly his hand was ascending to cup Charles’s cheek until Charles was holding his fingers—not quite removing his hand, but then not decided on whether he wanted his hand to stay, either.   
  
“I just feel like such a fool,” he went on; Erik shook his head immediately and bowed down to place his lips on Charles’s other hand. He kissed and kissed and kissed him as he listened to his voice. “That night the children were talking about you.”  
  
Erik stopped, mouth poised, and rested his head on Charles’s lap instead.   
  
“Some of the younger students were making a fuss at bedtime. I was passing by so I went to check, and just then I heard an older student warn the little ones, _‘Magneto will come and crush you if you don’t go to sleep_.’ It worked like a charm.”   
  
Erik didn’t know if this was something to laugh at or be disturbed by. He dug his cheek into Charles’s thigh, feeling his brows steeple into a frown.  
  
“They asked me to protect them from you. You’re a  _monster_  in their minds. They shriek at the mention of your name. And sometimes I hope I can see you in the same way,  _believe you me_ , until you take off your helmet—”  
  
“And you find out how much love this monster is capable of.”  
  
Erik felt Charles move a hand into his hair. He clenched at the strands for a while, not hard enough to hurt—as much as Erik hoped it could—but with the urgency of reassuring himself that something was there.  
  
“Charles you know I love you.”   
  
Erik was suddenly so at ease with the silence between them, the warm skittering touch of Charles’s blunt nails against his scalp, the comfort of intimacy, that he felt betrayed by his own self.  
  
“Now would it have hurt you to write that in a letter?” Charles chided, light-hearted if it wasn’t so painfully accusing.   
  
The silence afterwards should’ve felt heavy, but it soothed him in places he didn’t know hurted. Something as simple as a quiet moment of rest had never been as wonderful as it felt when it could be had with his head pillowed on Charles’s lap. In this pleasingly warm, golden-lit room, where Charles’s fingers carded through his hair, he fought the instinct to doze. These weren’t the moments he needed to speed by, to recall as insignificant blurs; here he wanted to savour everything from the Persian rug under his knees, to the monotonous cadence of the tall grandfather clock ticking forward with time.  
  
After all, he may never be welcomed back. Tomorrow he would be knee-deep in responsibilities, all of them violent, turbulent incursions of human-populated territories, arrangements that would end in death and deceit, weeks, or even months of wearing the helmet to keep vital locations and schemes untraceable. He would compromise the delicate state of his precious relationship with his only friend.  
  
And he may never have this chance again.   
  
“Will you let me stay the night with you?” he asked, capturing Charles’s wrist as he lifted his head from the man’s lap. He was quick to add, “I’ll leave before sunrise. Nobody will even know I was here.”  
  
Charles blinked. His brow twitched. “You want to stay?”  
  
Erik turned his head towards Charles’s captive arm and kissed the inside of his wrist. “I have the whole night.” He placed his cheek in Charles’s palm. “I want it all with you.”  
  
From then the sequence of their actions flowed swiftly, not a word of cue or protest said between them. Erik must have brought the images back to the surface of his mind, and Charles must have been thinking about it too, for the moment Erik climbed to his feet, Charles raised his arms, beckoning.  
  
Erik bent down so Charles could loop an arm around his shoulders. He braced Charles around his back while his other arm went under Charles’s knees, and with one reassuring squeeze, he scooped him up into his arms.

It was incredible. The power, the beauty, the man in his arms, all of which he held tight to his chest. There was now a balance of trust between them—Charles bereft of his wheelchair, his mobility, and Erik without his helmet, his privacy. For this moment they relied on each other completely.   
  
Tomorrow they would look back at this moment in despair.  
  
He set Charles down to sit on the bed, beside the pile of his nightclothes: a matching set of flannel pyjamas.  
  
As Charles began taking off his button down, Erik crouched down for his shoes. Charles paused, surprised, before letting Erik continue.   
  
Still no words. Two men whose verbal sparring had ultimately elucidated the differences in their mentalities, the largest disagreement between them—they were now creating silence, and it was blissfully calming.  
  
Charles unbuttoned the last of his shirt and slipped it down his shoulders before carefully folding it up and placing it next to his jacket. His cotton undershirt came off with a lot less care, and it joined the pile rather quickly as Charles reached for his night shirt.  
  
Erik knew better than to stare, but it was hard to look away when he noticed how in his haste, Charles had the paired the wrong button with the wrong slot.   
  
“Slow down,” he said first, ceasing Charles’s erratic fingers. “You’ve muddled them up.”  
  
Charles looked down at his work, prodded all of the buttons open, then dropped his hands to his sides.   
  
It was a lot more difficult not to stare, so he offered, “Should I?”  
  
“Leave it,” Charles mumbled, shifting himself across the length of the bed until he was closer to the bedside table. He seized the thermos that was on it, then bent to open the drawer underneath. A plethora of medicine rattled with the movement, and he picked out a plastic container, unscrewed the lid, and shook out a pair of pills onto his palm. Erik watched as he downed them both with a swig of the thermos.   
  
Droplets of water came spilling out of the corner of his mouth, racing down the long column of his neck and collecting in the dip of his collarbone. Then another stream of escaping water snatched his attention, this time as it travelled over his chin and down the gaping front of his chest, streaking him from the solar plexus to the belly button.  
  
“Gott, Charles,” he muttered quietly, wary of the dance his eyes were doing up and down and all over Charles’s face, all over his body, unable to stop. He couldn’t concentrate on anything else when Charles’s throat was stretched out in front of him, a damp, shiny pale, with the bump of his Adam’s apple protruding so delectably. Erik watched him put the thermos down, then rub the back of his hand over his mouth. His chin was still dripping wet.   
  
“Trousers are always a bit of a fuss,” Charles huffed, unbuttoning them at the waistband and pulling the zip down before he moved back onto his elbows. He dragged them down his hips with a bit of struggling and tugging, and Erik looked on raptly, settled on his haunches. Seeing Charles undress, despite how differently he was managing the task now, still evoked the same response in Erik. With all his might he  _ignored_ , at first, the way his body reacted at the sight of Charles’s silky white skin, dotted with perfect little freckles. The memory of taste and texture was overwhelming, like a reunion for his senses, for his hands and mouth that craved contact.   
  
Charles had his trousers down to his knees, then his ankles. The bed was low enough for him to reach down and wrench them off. He then folded them on his lap, straightening out the creases, and placed them with the rest of his clothes.   
  
Erik made a grab for the flannel bottoms, but Charles sighed, “Just put those with the rest, on that chair over there,” as he handed Erik his folded clothes.   
  
He hesitated, looking down at Charles’s open and unbuttoned shirt, his light blue boxers, and his cotton socks.   
  
“Are you sure—you won’t get cold?”  
  
Charles brushed a hand over his chin, still drying.

“I’m actually quite hot.” He shrugged, like he didn’t know what he was doing to Erik. More so when he watched Erik stand from his knees to his feet and place the pile of clothes on the chair, with there being no way his eyes didn’t land on his half-formed erection. He knew too well, but his poker face was impeccably blank and unreadable and Erik couldn’t tell if his flagging interest was welcome or not. He supposed he could be relieved when Charles told him, “It’s a lovely suit, but is it going to come off?”  
  
Erik had it off in no longer than a minute. Charles didn’t even flinch when he saw how much his underwear strained with his rising cock. His lashes fluttered as he glanced back up towards Erik’s face, then fixed his attention on his legs and getting them onto his bed.  
  
The bed was certainly not built for two. Charles manoeuvered himself onto the mattress, then laid on his back, shutting his eyes. Erik switched off the light before he went to Charles’s other side, pulling the blanket out so he could lay it over them.  
  
Charles must’ve opened his eyes again. “Since when did you start wearing clothes to bed?”  
  
Erik placed the blanket back down. He stepped away from the bed, and silently, removed the rest of his clothes. When his cock jutted out and felt the air, how  _thick_  it was with tension and anticipation, he had to swallow hard. Think about the narrowness of the hard, clinical bed he eased himself into. Seize the blanket and spread it over both their bodies, lean over Charles to tuck it around him, even if that left him with a little less.   
  
“Comfortable?” he asked Charles.  
  
“Come closer,” he replied.  
  
Erik swallowed, harder, and slid into the space between them. He was on his side, facing Charles’s profile. There was still a sheen of wetness on the man’s neck, and lower if Erik looked—if he found the courage to.   
  
For now, he was having enough trouble keeping his cock from brushing Charles’s hip. He shut his eyes and tried to sleep, but he found himself still awake, mulling over the way Charles was still staring up at the ceiling, waiting.   
  
“Is something wrong?” he asked, placing a hand on Charles’s shoulder.   
  
“Yes.” And then Charles was hauling himself up into a seating position. “It’s too hot for this,” he started to shrug off his shirt.  
  
“Um—” Erik stared dumbly at Charles’s fight with the only stitch of clothing covering his upper body, which resulted in the shirt being flung at the foot of the bed. Charles sighed, then moved to lay back down.  
  
“Much better,” he said, content. “That fabric’s itchy anyway.”  
  
Erik rearranged the blanket around his friend. His forearm was draped over Charles’s chest, and it didn’t want to move. He opened his palm to feel for the wetness all along Charles’s skin, and he swept his hand down, beneath the blanket, feeling Charles’s heaving breaths, feeling Charles shiver.   
  
“Has there been anyone else?” he asked, settling his hand on Charles’s midriff and kneading down, stunned by the reaction he was getting out of his friend, who arched up with a breathless moan, bringing his own arm up to place it over Erik’s.  
  
And Erik stopped, stilled—suddenly terrified of what Charles’s answer would be. The prospect of someone else with their heart pulsing for Charles, with their fingers tracing the patch of freckles on the back of Charles’s arms, their mouth on Charles’s beautiful lips.   
  
Erik would’ve rather wished to not know, and wished, fiercely, that he hadn’t asked.  
  
Charles squeezed Erik’s hand, and it felt as reassuring as his words. “No, Erik. There hasn’t been anyone.”  
  
“Good,” he said, and he sounded so glad that he didn’t even recognise his own voice. He sighed. “ _Good_.”  
  
Charles stroked the knuckles of his hand with the tips of his fingers. He was looking up at him like he had found something peculiar.   
  
“And what about you?”   
  
Erik spluttered.

“Charles… There’s something about yourself that you should know.” He looped his arm around Charles’s waist and dragged himself closer to his body, placing his lips to the man’s ear. “I don’t think you’re aware of the effect you have on people.” He moved his hair off his face, saying, “You’re quite bewitching, Charles Xavier, and after having you once, you ruined even the question of having anyone else.” He buried his face in Charles’s neck, and when his head turned away, cheeks darkening with a blush, Erik calmly turned his face back round with an insistent hand. “Now can you imagine,” he breathed, licking up Charles’s neck, “after all the ways I had you, and after all the love you gave me,” he swallowed, gently raking his teeth down Charles’s throat, “that anyone else stood a chance?”  
  
Charles turned his head into the pillow with a smile, and Erik was struck by a surge of giddiness, like he was suddenly a child again, discovering something he wanted to keep forever.   
  
And knowing, bitterly, that it was something that he may never have again, he went for it; he rolled his body on top of Charles’s, limbs straddling his lover’s, and dived. But when Charles lifted his chin, eyes still open, Erik retreated. He breathed over Charles’s mouth, let the outward part of his bottom lip graze the soft wetness of his lover’s, before pulling away. Charles still had his mouth open in position, tongue settled over the bottom row of his teeth, and breathed a sigh of disappointment when Erik’s mouth ended up high on his cheekbone. His eyelashes fluttered against Erik’s nose.   
  
Charles seized Erik by the side of his face and dug his fingers into his sideburn. When he lifted himself up to meet Erik’s mouth, one that was curled in an amused smile, he responded with teeth. Pure, hard teeth, clamping onto his bottom lip and tugging him close.   
  
Erik retaliated with a tender kiss, his mouth pressing down on the offence, calming it, arguing his case of affection. It was as though the roles had been reversed. And yet it didn’t feel unnatural to swipe his thumb over Charles’s brow while the man ran his nails down Erik’s back. He endured the pain of having his hair wrenched from the roots even as he twisted his neck and placed kisses in as many places as he saw freckles, on and on, until Charles’s hands trembled and fell out of his hair. Submitting—to every pressure of Erik’s mouth on his flesh, no longer fighting for the control he already had. His chest gleamed with saliva, and Charles brushed his fingers through it, as though blending it into his skin. Erik felt all the tension in his groin tighten. His cock rested heavily in between Charles’s thighs, where he couldn’t feel a thing. He shut his eyes and dug his face into Charles’s chest.   
  
He wanted to bring Charles off. More desperately than the demands of his own burgeoning arousal, which his mind never failed to revolve around, he wanted to have Charles reach his peak. See it and taste it and feel its breaths, deep and then fast and then long, dragging, huffs of air…  
  
He nuzzled Charles’s sternum, stretched his tongue to trace just the outline of Charles’s nipple where gooseflesh rose — where sensitivity was, apparently, high. He couldn’t remember Charles keening this much, nor him locking sounds in his throat, quiet and yet soulfully enthusiastic. He could almost swear every jolt of his prick corresponded with the throaty hitches in Charles’s voice. If only the man would be easy on his bottom lip—  
  
“Here.” Erik wedged Charles’s lip out from under his teeth with a probing finger he then offered to place inside his lover’s mouth. Charles opened up for it sweetly.   
  
When Erik sucked hard on the stub of Charles’s nipple, it came into use. Charles sank his teeth into it as he cried out, a frown between his eyebrows. Erik was diligent, unerring, his mouth flooding with saliva as it tasted a spectrum of Charles, places where he was smooth, ruddy flesh, to places where muscle was a hardened surface under his tongue.  
  
He tried not to find it too disheartening that Charles was completely soft in his underwear.

It had to be resolved, and he neglected to think twice as he lifted his hips and stuffed his hand down Charles’s boxers. He threaded his fingers through a thick bush of hair, and finally, sought the still-relaxed flesh of Charles’s cock. He hadn’t even managed to get his fingers around it before he was being pushed away.  
  
“Don’t bother,” Charles whispered, looking between their bodies at where Erik’s hand was venturing. “I’m too exhausted, I can’t—”  
  
“It’s okay,” Erik insisted, leaning down to peck the corner of Charles’s mouth, then lower. “We can try. We can try all night if we have to.”  
  
Charles shook his head. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen tonight.”  
  
Erik let Charles pull his hand away to place it elsewhere. His mood faltered with him.  
  
“Oh, my love, please don’t be upset...”  
  
He rested his forehead against Charles’s, crushed. No matter how softly his friend spoke, or how gently he stroked at his arms, Erik resisted.   
  
“This isn’t good.” Charles pouted as he dipped a hand to feel Erik’s ebbing erection. His thumb rubbed at the moisture around his cock head, fist squeezing at the receding swell of his girth as though to keep it from happening, and it was utterly wrong that he was succeeding.   
  
“Charles stop,” he snapped. He didn’t have the heart to physically remove Charles’s hand, and he thought kissing his distracting lips would derail him, but Charles forged on, bringing him to full hardness. “Charles if you’re not going to then I don’t want to.”  
  
“Erik it’s not that big a deal—”  
  
He gently grabbed Charles by his wrist, holding him still.  
  
“Only if you come into my mind and feel it with me.”  
  
Charles’s eyes gaped. “You’ll let me?”  
  
“Do you have the energy to?” Erik stroked Charles’s wrist.  
  
He wet his lips. “Yes.”   
  
“Then go on.” Erik tipped his head forward, making it quite clear that he didn’t intend to let go until Charles entered him—even if the man he was letting in could very well do anything to him that he fancied.   
  
“Don’t tempt me,” Charles laughed, and Erik bent down to kiss him, slipping his hands up Charles’s abdomen to settle both in his hair.   
  
He trusted him so much it was concerning.   
  
“This is my favourite place,” Charles told him, grinning.  
  
“What is it like?”  
  
“Like a haunted house.” Charles ran the back of his fingers down Erik’s cheek. “One that  _I_  haunt. I’m not really there, but I’m in every shadow and every creak of the floorboards.”  
  
Erik caught Charles’s hand and kissed it.   
  
“Lick,” Charles ordered, pressing his open palm to Erik’s mouth. Docile, he swept his tongue across the pad of Charles’s hand to the tip of his fingers. “Mmm,” he moaned, and Erik surmised he had also experienced the desperate pulse of interest from his cock.  
  
Charles brought his hand down between them and resumed his earlier ministrations, but this time with a hand that was fully aware of every press of his digits and every slick, hot drag of his hand’s tight shape around Erik’s hardness. It curled upwards on its way to full growth, both of them suddenly too loud when Charles’s knuckles brushed his balls.   
  
Erik kissed his face into the pillow, muting their moans. Charles opened with a wet lick and squeezed his cock at the base—and even though he knew he was about to do so, he groaned louder. Erik would’ve laughed at his slip if it didn’t just manage to intensify his desire tenfold, and only make it harder for him to not thrust forward.  
  
He looked down, panting, and watched the way Charles mastered a rhythm tying them both together to the same rope of pleasure, taut and strong between them.   
  
“Oh god I’m close,” Charles rolled his head to the side, quickening the pace of his hand. Erik had a breath to spare for one choked out laugh as he realised what Charles had said. Sure enough, they were equally achingly close.   
  
But it was Erik’s body that signified their climax, after a helpless thrust forward from his hips and a hoarse cry from the bottom of Charles’s lungs. Erik clapped a hand over his lover’s mouth and dropped his head on the pillow with a sharp gasp. He drenched Charles’s fingers and stomach in his hot, sticky semen, which for a while, didn’t seem to stop coming out.

Eventually, Erik would have to adjust himself so he wasn’t half collapsed over Charles. For now, he stayed motionless where he was, listening to the sounds of Charles catching his breath. When he was quieter, Erik removed his hand from his Charles’s mouth, thumb lingering over a swollen bottom lip.   
  
“Are you alright?” he whispered, stroking Charles’s hair behind his ear. The man’s eyes were slowly falling shut.  
  
“Yes.” He swallowed, blinking dreamily. “Just knackered.”  
  
Erik kissed Charles’s shoulder before mustering all the Herculean effort needed to hoist himself up. Charles’s eyes snapped open.  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
“Just to get something for us to wash with.” Erik smiled until Charles laid back down, peaceful. He slipped off the bed and made his way towards the bathroom, where he found a wide range of sponges and towels and washcloths. Picking the latter, he ran the cloth under a tap of warm water and returned to mop Charles up.   
  
He shifted the blanket down to Charles’s hip and cleared away the ejaculate coating his belly, and when Charles childishly giggled, claiming he was “ticklish”, Erik couldn’t help it if his smile was overly fond. He wiped Charles’s hand clean next, slowly and thoroughly, in the spaces between his fingers and up to his elbow, and only when there was nothing left to clear did he realise how desperately he didn’t want to let go.  
  
Charles was asleep when Erik returned from the bathroom, his own body cleaned and the cloth disposed of. The bed was rigid enough that when Erik returned to slip in next to him, it hardly dipped or shifted. Charles continued to sleep soundlessly, like a newborn, one hand over his stomach when he had tried to shield his sensitive, ticklish spot from Erik’s relentless attacks. His other hand was stretched out towards the space Erik had vacated, and as he returned, Erik took custody of that arm and placed it around his shoulder. He slept on his side, facing Charles, edging closer so he didn’t fall off the bed.   
  
In the end, Charles’s chest provided more pillow space than the item under their heads—mostly, under Charles’s head—so he positioned himself lower and drifted away too quickly for him to heed how comfortable he was getting while tomorrow still loomed.   


 

———

  
  
Charles yawned awake while Erik was still dressing. He voiced a polite “Good Morning,” even though his throat felt dry and it was pitch black darkness outside. “How did you sleep?”  
  
Fighting through another yawn, Charles said, “Good. Thank you. I could do with another few hours, though.”  
  
Erik held onto a tight smile for his friend as he continued buttoning his shirt. “Then sleep, Charles. Have some more rest.”  
  
But Charles was now glancing at him with eyes fully awake, propped up on his elbows. He watched him critically, a discernible frown forming on his face.   
  
“You’re leaving now,” Charles pointed out.  
  
“Yes,” Erik said too quickly, stuffing his legs into his trousers.   
  
“I wish there was something I could say that would stop you.”  
  
And Erik, strangely enough, stopped. For a while. Before resuming his quick change into his clothes.  
  
“No,” he said. “There isn’t.”  
  
Charles’s expression turned stern. “Then there will be enough for me to do.”  
  
Erik almost  _growled_ , dropping his hands to his sides. This was exactly how he wished their night wouldn’t end.   
  
“Charles you, and your students, are going to stay well out of my way. Do you understand me? I can’t see you getting hurt again.”  
  
“The harm’s been  _done_ , Erik. We both know I took my last steps in your direction. So if you devote yourself to terrorism then I will devote myself to stopping you and protecting the people you intend to harm. That’s just how it will be.”  
  
Erik grinded his teeth, reminded himself that this was the man he loved, the beautiful man he slept close to all night, not his enemy.

“You’re the one  _busy_  protecting  _our_  enemies, while my people try and protect our kind. When will you understand, Charles?” He pointed towards his temple. “You’ve seen it all. You know that I’m fighting for! And you should be standing by me.”  
  
“It makes no difference to you whether you’re killing innocent or guilty. To you all humans are the same, and I do  _not_  stand by that. When the humans inevitably turn on us, there will be the widespread belief that  _we_  are all the same, when we’re clearly not. Hence blurring the lines of distinction between mutants like  _me_ , who seek peace, and mutants like you, who want to see a world divided, a whole race  _exterminated_!”  
  
Sometimes Erik couldn’t tell if he loved Charles more or if he envied him more. For one, he possessed the most powerful mind imaginable. On the other hand, he dreamt the wildest, most impossible things with it.  _Peace._  
  
Charles laid back down on the bed. He had a hand placed over his chest as it rose and fell rapidly. Erik bolted to his side.   
  
“I’m alright,” Charles said in an instant, even as he let Erik place two fingers at the pulse point on his neck.  
  
“Yes, you are alright,” he confirmed. And he felt more relieved than his voice could suggest, so he didn’t stop himself from leaning down and pressing a kiss to Charles’s warm throat. “Don’t scare me like that.”  
  
“Don’t get so easily scared.”   
  
Laughter was incongruous while his blood was still boiling, yet it somehow managed to come easy. He saw Charles’s hand reach out and hold his, and the overwhelming desire to kiss it rushed him at once.   
  
“I have to go,” he said, still not able to look away from their joined hands. “I really have to go. I’ve left Mystique in charge…”  
  
“Oh God Erik,” Charles winced. “Please tell me you’re keeping her safe. I miss her so much. She misses me too, doesn’t she?”  
  
Erik contemplated lying, but felt foolish for even the thought of it. “A lot,” he nodded.  
  
Charles smiled sadly.   
  
“But she swears she’ll adjust,” he continued. “I’m the one who refuses to live without you. I’m the one who will keep coming back to you. I’m the stubborn one.” With a squeeze of Charles’s hand, he released it, and stood up from the bed.   
  
“And I’m equally stubborn for willing to accept you, then.”  
  
It was easy to say now. Both of them so eager to find a change in the other, take love from each other. Erik could only hope that Charles was prepared to keep his end of the promise. As for himself, he knew Charles would be a hard habit to break.   
  
He continued to dress, still wearing Charles’s gaze on his back. He slipped on his boots and laced them up in messy, uncaring knots. By the time he was ready to leave, in appearance as opposed to preference, the sun was starting to claim the skyline. Erik slowly towed the window open.  
  
He was poised to leave when he stopped, turned around, and marched over to the centre of Charles’s bedroom. He found the wheelchair, and clamped his hands around its handlebars. Wordlessly, he rolled it around and parked it right at Charles’s bedside, close enough for him to access it when he would need to.   
  
Charles’s mouth lifted at one corner. “Thank you,” he murmured.  
  
Erik folded down and hovered above his face for one searching moment before placing his mouth down on Charles’s. Then the urgency bled out of them both, as hands clawed at hair and tongues pressed at lips, moans wringing out without a care. Their kiss bordered on savage, loud and uninhibited, too definitive for comfort—Erik whimpered softly as he pulled away.  
  
Erik had to  _leave_. And if it wasn’t soon, it would become far too difficult, as it already was for him to simply lift his lips from Charles’s.   
  
“I have to leave.” He wiped his hand over his mouth and stood up.   
  
And now Erik had to disappear, both by mind and presence, and become Magneto.   
  
He had to reclaim his helmet from wherever it had been sitting disregarded and hope, with all his heart, that the next time he met Charles, they would not be in battle. For now—Charles would continue to haunt the corridors of his mind.   
  
It was a long journey back to base.


End file.
